


Longed and Lost

by acogna



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon)
Genre: F/M, Gen, I mean they get married we know that but y'know, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, by the ton, the latter for like two seconds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-19 07:34:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16530227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acogna/pseuds/acogna
Summary: Post S2, beware spoilers.When they learn that another Belmont might still be alive, Trevor and Sypha venture in search of his long lost family, and may discover within themselves that what they feel for each other might be more than mere friendship. Meanwhile, the remains of an evil unfinished business pursues them, and it's up to Alucard to discover what it means to hunt half of himself.





	1. A Winter's Evening

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, anyway.
> 
> I binged this show in all of less than two days and absolutely made a wreck of myself for the last two episodes of S2. Which leaves us with the question of Trevor and Sypha’s beautiful, beautiful friendship and—if Netflix is basing itself on the canon material from the original—their eventual romantic relationship and marriage. Or at least get that far enough into a relationship that marriage seems like the next step.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alucard is faced with a dangerous night encounter, while Trevor learns a shocking secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite being a Trevor / Sypha fic, we aren’t going to start with them, and instead we’ll begin with our favourite emo pretty boy.

In the winter winds, the castle that once belonged to Vlad Dracula Ţepeş stood tall and dominating, austere and cold and dark. With its high-reaching spires and thin buttresses, the figure towering over the rural landscape of Wallachia could not be mistaken for anything else. But the dread that was once attached to its name long since vanished with the death of its former owner, and now as an heirloom, it had passed down onto the next son of its name, Adrian Ţepeş.

The son, though not without a fearsome aura like his father, appreciated his solitude. He was fortunate that the thick stone walls of the castle were able to keep the buffets and the biting weather out, instead decorating whatever little windowpanes there were with snow and tiny swirls of frost. This allowed him to peruse the contents of his father’s private library in silence, just how he wanted it. Undisturbed, still and quiet.

Whenever he turned the page of the grimoire, the entire castle seemed to echo back its sound to him. It was not as if he did not dislike the privacy, but it always caught his attention whenever he so much as stepped into another room, as the hollow sound of his own loneliness reverberated throughout the foundations of his new home.

After finishing the book he was engrossed with, he shut it with a hand, but could not ignore the small lump somewhere inside the folds of the pages. He opened the covers again, finding that a small black ribbon was placed as a bookmark. One of his gloved hands went to trace over the thin fabric, and through its texture, he could almost recall the silky blonde hair of his mother against it. His eyes widened at even the thought, and to restrain back sorrows that were pooling at the edges of his eyes was a battle he had fought countless times since he had begun living in his father’s estate. He took the ribbon in his deft fingers, pocketing it as he shut the book again.

Placing the tome on top of a pile of books dominating the centre of the room, he continued on his way around the library. It had become something of a ritual, that in the dead of night, he would sort out the library for any new information or something interesting his father would have kept. He counted more than a hundred books so far, in the month that he had owned this castle, and he was barely a quarter of the way through.

His hands reached for another book on the shelf, but the clock from the vestibule chimed midnight rather ominously. He sighed, picking up his sword on the desk as he snapped his fingers. At his command, the lamps lighting the library dimmed and plunged the place into darkness.

But he stopped at the door frame, pausing, waiting for an answer to his stillness. Silence reigned throughout the cold stone.

Someone was in the castle.

It had taken him a few weeks to navigate these walls again, all on his own, and he still felt he had not discovered the whole trove of his father’s secrets despite this place being his childhood home. Still, with great ease, he made his way to the foyer, only to find a young woman at the door of the castle, a face obscured in a hood, looking around the high ceilings and dark corners of the welcoming room. Her dress’ hem was caked in ice, her cloak sprinkled with flecks of white as it was visible to even him that she shivered underneath it. The bright scarf around her neck was the only thing that was untouched by the snow.

“Hello?” she called out. “Is anybody there?”

Adrian moved slowly, pressing himself to the shadows, his blade cold at his side. If he could delay being seen, then all the better.

“I-I’m sorry, I just got lost,” she continued to plead. “My caravan broke down at the side of the road, a-and I just need a place to stay for the night.”

Shutting his eyes, he sighed. Damn him and his mother’s heart beating inside him.

He emerged from the darkness, pressing his scabbard to his thigh to keep it hidden within his coat, hidden from her. If she gasped at the sight of him, she did well to hide it, but her shock was visible, as she took two steps back and tried her best not to stare as he descended the landing.

“I am the master of this castle,” he said simply. “Who are you?”

She pulled down her hood, revealing long dark hair, not unlike his father’s. “My name is Miranda. I’m only passing through this country and wished not to bother anyone, but I fear I’ve been stranded by the snow storm.”

His expression remained neutral, even as he stood at the end of the staircase, watching her. He suddenly became conscious of his fangs, trying to restrict the movement of his mouth to try and hide his teeth. “You’re not from here, then.”

She shook her head. “No, my lord. Is that a concern?”

“To the locals, the mere silhouette of this castle would have given anyone pause. You’re bold to have approached it the way you did.”

She laughed a quaint and petite giggle. “Like I said, my lord, I’m only visiting."

Something brewed at the bottom of his stomach, like a better part of his intuition was warning him against this. He turned around, ready to lead her to a nearby room. “Very well. You asked for a bed? There is occupancy here for many here, and I’m willing to—”

Just as he turned around to see her again, his instincts got the better of him and he drew his sword, coming face-to-face with the hard nails that only a vampire could have. Deflecting the force upward, he swung the scabbard like a blade, using it to hit his attacker, but she dodged his move by sliding underneath. He attempted to thrust and swing, but the attacker was armed with a dagger of some sort that was able to parry him with ease. He pushed the sword forward with his own momentum, forcing his opponent to distance herself from him, and at this width, he could now observe her properly: pale skin hidden behind her cloak, with long fingernails clutching onto a dagger. Nimble, lithe, almost weightless, with the stink of blood in her breath.

“A vampire,” Adrian snarled at Miranda, his sword flourishing in circular motions without him having to hold it, before stopping, point at the ready. “You trespass in halls that aren’t yours.”

“Oh?” the voice came, and what was once sweet was now sharp. “Must I bow? Wipe my feet on your foyer carpet before I should have entered? Silly, silly me to have disrespected your presence.”

Adrian’s eyes narrowed, and at his will, the sword moved forward towards his assailant. She dodged the thrust, and the swing, and locked blades with it once, twice, thrice, countless times, with a flurry of sparks striking their metals between each parry. Jumping up to the ceiling, he only had her scarf to guide her lightning-fast movements, and could only block just in time before she would strike another place. Once they reached a deadlock in the middle of his foyer, she hissed between their blades, baring all of her sharp teeth and deadly eyes. Stoic as ever, he commanded all of his energy to send her spiraling backward, and he shut the doors using his telekinesis upon her impact so that its edge would crash against her spine with a sickening thud.

With a grunt, she fell to the floor, and he stood above her. In a gloved hand, he held his scabbard while his sword floated mid-air, edge just a few inches in front of her face. When she shot her head up, the point drew closer.

“I will repeat myself, and I don’t do so often,” he said, voice darker, eyes narrowing. “I am the master of this castle. Who are you?”

“I…” she spat out blood in an interruption, unable to wipe the smirk off her face despite being on all fours. “I am Laura of Styria, Lord Dracula.”

He paused, unconsciously tightening his grip on the scabbard. The name itself was enough to make him hesitate. “I am not Lord Dracula.”

The shock on Laura’s face was genuine, even as her brows furrowed and the panic gripped at her shaking hands. “How is that possible? You said it yourself that you were the master of this castle—”

The point drew closer to the bridge of her nose, and her words were replaced by a sharp inhale. He leaned in closer, so that she would be able to look at his face properly.

“You didn’t let me finish,” his voice was softer now, and tone menacing. “I am not Lord Dracula. He is long dead.”

Laura’s eyes grew wide, her breath catching in her throat even as blood began to spill out of the corner of her mouth. “That…that can’t be right. Who the hell are _you_ then? What right do you have to be parading around like you own this place?”

“I do own this place,” he turned his back, but the sword still remained a breath away from cutting her pale skin. “I am one of the three who defeated Dracula in battle.”

“One of the… _no.”_

He looked back at Laura, whose eyes were now wracked with realisation and rage. “You are the one they call Alucard, son and foil to Vlad Dracula.”

He was silent, but it was in his silence that her sentence confirmed itself. 

“What business do you have to confront me, Laura of Styria?” he said after a moment, his words more pressing than the blade ever was.

“My business is my mistress’ bidding,” she seemed to hiss, still wiping blood from her mouth.

“Which is?”

She cackled, high-pitched and eerie. “And why would I tell _you,_ son of Vlad Dracula?”

The point lowered at her throat. That, accompanied by a glare from him, was enough to make even the most brave and daring of souls tremble.

“Wrong answer,” he hissed. “Try again.”

She relented the second time, with the blade inching towards her throat, and the words came out rushed. “I was sent to investigate this castle for any remnants of Vlad Dracula that could have remained. And I was to defeat him, if the rumours of him being dead weren’t true.”

“Ah, but they are,” he mused as he paced away, the point retracting by only a mere inch, which allowed her breath to sigh. “You would have been a fool to confront Dracula, had he survived. If I was Dracula now, you would have been dead the moment you stepped into the threshold.”

Her eyebrows knitted into a frown. “Then you were a fool to confront him.”

He stopped walking, his back facing to her. But in an instant too fast for her to comprehend, the sword point dove down and struck her, pushing through the flesh of her right thigh as blood began to stain down her skirt. A pained scream echoed throughout the foyer, and he looked back at her with a blank expression on his face.

“I was a fool who won,” he said carefully, slowly. “And didn’t do it alone.”

The sword drew itself from her wound, making her crumple onto the flood and clutch the hole it had left there. But some shred of shock shone on her face as she got up slowly.

“You…you didn’t do it alone, that’s right,” she said to herself, her fanged smile growing wider. “That’s right. I may not be able to defeat you, but the other two who were with you…yes, and my master will be pleased with me, she’d be so happy when I will bring her the head of not Vlad Dracula, but of his killers.”

He left his own mind to wonder about who exactly she served.

She ignored his silence, continuing to look to the walls, nodding and narrowing her eyes. It was almost as if the castle itself was speaking to her in a language he could not understand. “The tales said it was a…hunter, and a scholar.”

“Who you’ll never know,” he interjected. “And never find.”

“You underestimate me, son of Vlad Dracula,” she took a deep breath, standing up despite the sword still threatening to cut her down. “I can still sense their presence here; your supposed home betrays you, your walls speak to me. The scent of magic…and the blood of a… _oh.”_

He tried not to let his panic show, and he was successful, if only for a moment.

“A magician,” she sneered, “and a Belmont.”

His eyes narrowed. She might have sensed his discomfort, because she turned to him with a wide grin on her face, fangs bared.

“Am I right, son of Vlad Dracula?”

“To get to them,” he challenged, sword flying back into his hands, and he let a wind rush past her with a mere swing into his first position. “You’ll have to get through me.”

“I won’t have to,” she smiled, reaching into her pouch slowly. “I’ll come back for you.”

Before he could even command the sword to pierce her, she vanished in a cloud of black smoke, temporarily blinding even his night vision and choking his lungs. In blind fury, his sword begun to swipe around the area she once stood in a thrash of unknown movements, and only when the smoke cleared was he able to see than she had vanished without a single trace, with only her blood in the carpet to act as a testimony that she was there.

“Damn it,” he cursed, the sword flying back to sheathe itself into its scabbard as he ran to the door.

But all that greeted him was the cold winds of the winter, not even a wisp of her is sensed by him. The breeze was beginning to pick up into the makings of a small blizzard, blowing snow into the castle and whipping his hair and cloak wildly around his body. Only one thing mattered, then: if she was to reach his former companions before him, then it would spell their demise. Not that they were not equipped to fight her, but if she was to catch them off-guard while they were busy cleaning up the countryside…

He sighed, buttoning up his shirt and then his cloak, taking his mother’s ribbon from his pocket and using it to tie up his hair in a messy bun. He stepped out into the chilling embrace of the winter, the doors of his castle automatically slamming shut behind him.

“God help you, Belmont,” he whispered into the wind, making his way west. “God help you that you aren’t drunk to hell if she gets there before me.”

* * *

Contrary to what God and His angels or all else might think, he was rather sober when he entered the tavern to look for answers. He managed to make his way to the bar, slumping over the wood as he tossed a coin on the stained wood. In less than a minute the coin was exchanged for half a tankard, which he took and downed in one swig.

But even now, her words rang solid and clear in his head. _Just ask around and get what we have to get._

He rubbed his neck and sighed. At the rate of how the drinks were spilling around him, this will take forever.

In the light of the evening lanterns, this tavern was not as loud as many that he frequented in the past, but it had enough activity to be a pool of information that could be wrangled from just about anyone. A small band at the side had a vielle and a woman on the lute singing to a ballad he long forgot the lyrics to. He counted at least a dozen men scattered all over the chairs, the stools at the bar, and some women already charming their way through the stink of ale. He looked up as the bartender—a young, no-nonsense woman—continued to fill in the cups that were placed in front of her.

“You, there.”

He shot his head up once she called to him, pulling down his hood and letting his mop of brown hair go free. He raised an eyebrow at the bartender, the scar across his left eye down to his cheek cutting it in half, and no one would have recognised him at the first glance because of the beginnings of a beard that ate away at the skin of his jaw.

“You have enough to go for another round?” she raised her pitcher, gesturing at his empty glass. “Or am I gonna gave to kick your ass out?”

“Alright, Jesus, don’t get your rags in a twist,” he mumbled, digging around in his belt for his pouch. He reached in, picked out a single coin and flipped it towards her, which she caught it in mid-air. Without another word, she poured his glass full and left him to drink half of it again.

“What’s the word out there?” he swirled his ale in his tankard, looking straight up at the bartender.

“Of what kind of business?” she asked back, eyes narrowing with a coy smirk.

“Of the remains of the demon horde,” he finished, wiping the smile off her face. He maintained eye contact with her as he downed the rest of his tankard in one go.

“And why’d _you_ want to know?” she shot back. “You got a death wish?”

“Maybe I do, and maybe I don’t,” he continued, voice dark enough to defend and hide his own intentions. “Maybe it’s none of your fucking business.”

She looked towards a group men at the end of the bar, all burly and large and drunk to their heads, and she leaned in closer to him so her words would be quieter.

“Andrei and the other two there have been going on about some tall tales,” she said carefully. “About some demonic-looking bastards who ravaged their herd of sheep, among other things. You’d be wise to ask them…unless, that is, you’re more sauced than them.”

“I’m sober enough to hold my own in a fight, if that’s what you’re asking,” he replied.

Standing and holding his empty glass upside down, he slammed it on the bar, getting up from the stool and making his way to the three men. Rare were the times had he been less than slightly drunk in a bar ten minutes in, tonight being one of the exceptions, as when he tapped one of the man’s shoulders, the intimidating figure mattered to him little, when the drunk persona of him would have given less of a shit. The tall one, probably Andrei, obviously deep within inebriation, scowled down at him, while all he could do was fake a smile as if he was talking to an old friend.

“Hello, fine gentlemen,” he greeted. “I was told by the kind bartender that you’ve got some interesting stories about demo—?”

 _“Another_ one dying to hear about the supposed Belmont hunter?” Andrei scoffs in the corner, putting down his glass of ale. “Look, son, we’re done telling stories for the night, and that’s final.”

“Belmont,” he repeated, the name like a revelation in his mouth. He grinned smugly, and his posture corrected itself; consciously, he pulled his cloak closer around his chest to cover the small gleamings of a gold insignia. This could be interesting.

He tilted his head in curiosity. “You said a Belmont hunter.”

“Are you fucking deaf?” Andrei spat. “I know what I said. Now get lost.”

But he remained insistent and stubborn, gesturing with his hand in circular motions. “Were they, perhaps, travelling with a Speaker-Magician?”

“No, they were alone, and I doubt they were even a Belmont to begin with,” the second man interjected in Andrei’s stead. “Just some fancy shithead running around with a fake family crest on a half cape.”

But it dawned on him, slowly, as all things do that were not motions in a fight. A truth that made his eyes widen, made his fingers tremble and threatened to shake his words in a feeling that could be anxiety or worry, or even an excited form of joy. He _was_ travelling with a Speaker-Magician, and his own family crest was on his vest, and he wore no such cape. The supposed Belmont hunter they talked of did not pertain to him.

Could that mean…?

“Tell me more,” he pressed, his mind restless. “Who is this Belmont hunter?”

“You really are that eager, boy?” Andrei unfolded his full form, taking a few steps forward and forcing him to create room for such a gigantic figure. The cracking of his knuckles would have been a sound meant to intimidate any ordinary man. “How about a deal? You beat me in a fight, and I’ll tell you the tale.”

Slowly, the entire tavern hushed itself into whispers, turning their attention to the skirmish between the two parties. The bartender took a chair from behind the table to watch them brawl; never mind her establishment or her fragile, half-drunken glasses littering the bar. Even the musicians stopped playing their tune to stare at the arguing with earnest interest. His own eyes darted to those who were watching him, learning from their whispers that no one had defeated Andrei in a fistfight before, that he was too large and too tall to even be thrown to the ground, that his punches could break a face on impact, that he was not to be trifled with.

But he did not care.

“Deal.”

The crowd around them cheered, and parted into a circle around them as the two goons of Andrei stepped back and let him take the stage. Smirking, he swished the train of his coat to the side and balled his fists in a fighting position, lowering his body into a professional brawler’s stance.

“Hope you can tell the story with fewer teeth,” he boasted.

The first two punches were thrown.

* * *

“I told you, I wasn’t—agh!”

He yelped as she dabbed a moist cloth onto the bruise under his eye, which was already beginning to blacken. The inside of their small horse-drawn caravan was lit by a small lamp, warm and cosy, in comparison to the cold of the winter outside. They had parked the thing just a walk away from the town centre, with the horses tied next to the fire, and still, in the distance, they could hear the sounds of the tavern, still very much alive from the exciting encounter moments before.

“That…stings, Sypha,” he complains, wiping his tired eyes as she shoots him an exasperated look.

“It wouldn’t sting as much if you stopped moving,” Sypha chastised, raising the cloth to his eyes again. “Now, sit still or it’s going to hurt a lot worse than it did at the tavern.”

With a defeated sigh, he surrenders, still hissing in pain whenever she so much as touched the cloth to his skin. Once she was done applying the salve, she reached behind her for the bandages and got on her knees, winding her arms around him so she could wrap the sore areas of his bare chest. He raised his arms to help her, flattening creases and layering them in places she could not reach, looking away once she began to knot them above his shoulder.

“That was stupid, you know,” she said, finally. “We agreed that you’d go to the tavern for directions to the horde, not to go around and stir up bar fights.”

“This one was for a good reason,” he interjected, looking for his shirt next to the lamp.

“Oh?” a brow shot up, suspicious. “It better have. I’m only grateful you didn’t get drunk in the process, but we know you were already beyond that.”

When he could not answer, she huffed an exasperated sigh, crossing her arms as she looked down at the caravan floor. A beat of silence passed through them for only a moment, as he put his shirt back on and fastened his vest rather messily. Her temporary anger melted into weariness and she stared at him for a while, finally offering to adjust the straps on the vest’s front and back. Her hands met his on his chest, and she took his bloody knuckles and held his hand in front of them both. In the quiet, they sat like that for some time, the crackling of the fire and the distant music of the tavern filling in the gap as she traced her fingers over his own bruised ones.

“I was scared, Trevor,” she admitted, the anger and disappointment still seething through her concern. “Imagine, I had to find you in the middle of a fist fight and get you out of there as things barely started to calm down.”

His eyes narrowed, and he could smirk if he wanted to. “You have that little faith in me winning a simple bar fight?”

In the faint of the lamp light, he noticed an almost invisible blush paint her cheeks rose, making her eyes wide. “N-No…I know you can get out of your troubles in your own ways, and I’ve seen you in your own share of fistfights.” Her embarrassed look became serious, even with her flustered expression. “But it still didn’t stop me from worrying about you.”

She…worried about him. Right.  

“Sypha…” Trevor’s eyes softened, and he fixed his sitting position so he could finally face her properly. “Look, I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

He released a breath. Their moments of tranquility like this were far from uncomfortable to the both of them, but his behaviour tonight had put some strain on it. Not like he had not done such stunts countless times in the past, but she would reprimand him for it and worry over it every single time. And he swore he would learn his lesson for her, he really tried. If she had changed him into a better man into the past, she can continue to do so now.

“So?” she broke their pause, letting go of his hand to put hers on her hips, even as she sat with her feet under her. “What was _so_ important that you got into a fight that frightened me half to death? It better have been directions to the horde, if it was that difficult to get.”

He opened his mouth, but he glanced away, the embarrassment on his face more evident closer to the light. “No…”

With a deadpanned expression, she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Of course. You’re only lucky I asked the nice innkeeper the same thing, and he was glad to direct me to lands east of here, near the Danube.”

“On the way to Braila, how about that,” he muttered absentmindedly.

Her tired expression still did not waver. “So you got into a fist fight for nothing.”

That made something in him click, and he looked at the flame of the lamp, shaking his head. His demeanour was suddenly serious. “No, not just for nothing.”

“Then what was it for?”

Slowly, intently, he looked up at her, and the strength in his eyes could have taken her by surprise, with how determined he looked.

“Sypha,” he said, “I might not be the last Belmont alive.”


	2. Heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Trevor and Sypha confront a powerful night creature, Laura consults her mistress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boring summary is boring, but trust me: the chapter will get much *ahem* _heated_ later on. (And no, not in That Way; this fic is T for some reasons).
> 
> You remember Carmilla? And how I promised that she would only show up for two seconds? Yeah. 
> 
> Also, that sexual tension tag up there? Also yeah.

In the darkness of the dead of night, from the light of a faraway town, a young woman crouched behind one of the older buildings, sitting on her ankles as she rummaged through the bag slung across her shoulder. Once she procured a small pouch from the inside, she pulled down her hood, to reveal a fanged mouth and deadly eyes. When she opened the small container, she spilled its contents over the snow in front of her: a few thin, steel-like shards that, with a wave of her hand over it and a wish of intent, began to rise from the ground and coalesce into a singular mirror, fitting themselves into each other like pieces of a puzzle.

She waited just for a few moments before her reflection slowly began to be overtaken by the face of another, an alluring, beautiful pale-skinned woman with hair as white as the snow and a voice colder than the winter wind.

In the mirror woman’s presence, the young lady bowed her head. “My Lady Carmilla.”

“Sweet, sweet Laura,” Carmilla greeted back. “How are you, my dear? Does the hunt go well?”

“That was what I wished to speak to you about, my lady.”

Carmilla raised an eyebrow, the beginnings of a scowl forming on her lips. “It isn’t like you to contact me before a finishing a task I delegate to you.”

Laura avoided the point of her gaze, her face burning if it could. “I…know, but something happened that I believe might interest you.”

Despite having been occupied by something on the other side of the mirror, Carmilla’s full attention was now fully on Laura.

“I’ve come into contact one of the three beings who defeated Vlad Dracula in battle: his son, the dhampir they call Alucard.”

At the name, Carmilla suddenly tensed, eyes wide and face worried. “His son is a dangerous boy to be trifled with. You were fortunate to get out of that alive. Did he…hurt you?”

The wound on her thigh seemed to ache in response, but she attempted to hide it. “No, my lady; I was slightly injured, but I’m fine.”

Carmilla sighed in relief. “Thank goodness you’re alright. But if that _is_ the case, what do you propose in that stead?”

“I can hunt the other two opponents down. The Speaker-Magician and the Belmont who fought alongside him. Would you be pleased with that, my lady?”

Carmilla looked to the side, tapping a long fingernail on her pointed chin in musing. “Hmm…the supposed heroes who defeated Dracula. Yes, that would be quite the prize to have. Perhaps it would even force the other generals to look to me in their time of need.”

Laura smiled even at the thought of her lady being happy. “I will see it done.”

“Do not fail me, Laura,” Carmilla said finally. “I have my utmost faith in you.”

And with a final bow of Laura's head, the image of Carmilla faded from the mirror and scattered apart, falling back as shards onto the snow. She scooped up each individual piece back into her pouch, keeping it deep in the warmth of her bag, and put her hood back over her head. In the distance, her acute senses could pick up the faint sound of screeching, and beating wings.

The last of the horde. She smiled at the mere prospect of even pleasing her lady, standing up and continuing back on the trail that smelled of Belmont blood and the wisps of magic.

* * *

“It’s been a few days,” she said to him, fuelling the campfire with her magic despite the small amount of wood it burned on. “Your bruises should be feeling better.”

“Well, they don’t _look_ much better,” he replied, shifting his sitting position around the fire.

That, at least, earned a laugh from her. “Trust me, I would tell you if you started to look ugly.”

Their traveling caravan had been parked on the side of a small country road, and the residue of the snowfall earlier that afternoon had layered the entire countryside in a thin sheet of white. Their small fire was being monitored by her magic, and as he sat across her, he had draped his fur-collared cape over his shoulders to attempt to keep him warm.

“And do I?” he asked.

Her eyes looked to the side as she stuck her bottom lip out to appear as if she was pondering. “Mm…just a notch above that.”

His groan of exasperation made her giggle a little bit louder, and he reached up to rub his jaw. “Is it the scruff?”

“That,” she said, pointing at his growing facial hair with her free hand, “is an overgrown rat living on your face.”

“Oh, let me live, would you?” he sighed, but his small smile betrayed him. “It’s winter, it’s cold.”

She wanted to agree with him, but she could only smile at the campfire and let the embers crackle in the cold of night. Once the flames steadied themselves, she retracted her magic from feeding the heat and pulled her knees to her chest, letting her cloak trap her own body heat as she lost her gaze in the fire. In the silence, nothing else could distract her except for the tantalizing dance of the flames, the way they crackled and spat and ravaged in the most beautiful way. Her eyelids threatened to close, and she blinked a few times as if to keep her awake.

But what really stirred her up fully was the sudden presence of warmth next to her. She turned her head to see Trevor settle by her side; apparently he had gotten up and sat beside her without her paying attention, but she did not protest when he lifted his cape and draped it over her shoulder, hugging her close with an arm.

“Hope that’s a bit warmer,” he commented, spreading his legs out on the ground to make himself more comfortable.

“Thank you, Trevor,” she murmurs, leaning her head against his shoulder.

They sat like that for some time, for what felt like hours, basking in each other’s presence. For the entire month they had been travelling together, it became clear that they would share each other’s lives. Habits, secrets, sorrows, trust, and everything that came with a friendship tested through the countryside of Wallachia. Such close intimacy was far from anything absurd or awkward; if anything, they shared terrible sleeping positions in the past with the caravan, with one incident occurring where Trevor had to sleep tied to the horse because there had been no more room.

He seemed to have been thinking about the humorous memory, as he let out a soft chuckle and pulled her closer. She scooted more towards him and the fire crackled in the silence.

“So,” she broke the tranquil night air. “Another one of your family members might still be out there. How are you feeling?”

The grin from his face vanished, melting away gradually. “I…don’t know. It still doesn’t seem real, even. For years, I thought I was the last one…the _only_ one. And now…now, I have a chance to finally become part of a family again. My _real_ family, this time. Damn it all if it ends up all a joke, but it’s something worth looking into.”

She took the brief pause to reach for the free hand that was propped over his bent knee, curling his bandaged fingers around hers. “Who do you think it might be, then?”

When he shrugged, she could feel the muscles under his broad shoulders rise with her read rested on them. “Like I’d know every damn Belmont born under the sun. I mean…my family would have expected me to, but I’ll be lucky if it’s someone I know, someone who remembered me before the…”

He trailed off naturally. He had told her of the event that had brought the Belmonts to ruin sometimes throughout their journey, and only ever when it was appropriate for him to. It always brought back tempestuous and troubling memories from the dirt, memories that he obviously did not wish to relive. It was best she would not bring it up again now, if only for his own comfort.

“We’ll find whoever it is, Trevor,” she promised, clutching his hand tighter. “We’ll bring you back home.”

 _We’ll bring you back home._ Those words resonated deep within his heavy chest, coming out as a shaky sigh through a smile. “Sypha, I—”

A screech from behind them shattered the night air. In a move they had long performed for countless times, he stood up immediately and doused the campfire with snow, and she already assumed a position before him, fingers poised to summon a small rush of flame at the ready.

“Where’s it coming from?” he asked Sypha, hands wrapping around the handle of the Morning Star at his belt.

She cast her magic out, trying to sense any malevolent forms of energy that would answer to her call. After a brief moment, she pointed her free hand to their northeast.

“Over there.”

He took the lead in her direction, resisting the urge to unsheathe the Morning Star as she trailed behind him at a supportive distance. In a clearing, a large creature was mowing down trees with its claws and sweeping winds with its wings, forming small traces of falling snow wherever it stepped. When it heard the two of them approach, its head turned to them, its red eyes gleaming with only dread the underworld could grant it. Like all creatures of hell, its dark skin glistened against the night, as if it was absorbing energy from the atmosphere around it. A red spot in its throat began to glow, and its mouth opened to reveal the beginning of embers and razor-sharp teeth.

“Firedrake,” he identified quickly, knowing the dummies he had trained with in his youth and his family’s own descriptions. “I’ll go on the offensive. Subdue it when I lure out its weak spots.”

“I’m on it,” she affirmed, planting her feet firmly and folding in her fingers in intricate patterns as he ran towards the creature.

Moving her arms in circular flourishes, she summoned spires of ice from the ground, circling around her head like a halo, and with each flick of her wrist, the ice began to charge at the monster, striking into its hide and angering the thing. Each spike thrown meant she would create another from the ground, effectively making a volley of razor-sharp projectiles trying to aim for its chest.

While it was distracted, he ran towards the monster, whip trailing behind him as he cast it out with a spin of his body and striking the thing’s mouth with the red-hot metal. It burned a scar onto its maw, the flames on it seared skin glowing blue and eating away at the flesh. With a pained yelp, it bared its fangs and let out a grating hiss, and in a movement he was busy retracting his whip to see, it spun and hit him with its tail, sending him spiralling back into a pile of cold snow.

“Trevor!” she yelled, panic rising in her voice despite the distance that separated them.

Pushing himself out of the snow, he got back on his feet and turned to her. “The neck! The weak spot is the neck!”

“I understand!” she affirmed, and with a shift of her fingers and a spin of her hands, the icicles became fire, launching themselves at the monster’s nape or the wound Trevor had made prior before a lucky one burned itself into its right eye.

From where she stood, she took a step forward and shifted her fingers, creating multiple balls of flame to materialise before the monster’s body. When she thrust her hands forward, the fire rushed towards the demon with a blazing heat enough to melt the snow in its path, and sending Trevor staggering a few steps back at the mere force. But before it even reached the creature, it stood on its hind legs and with a screech, began to flap its wings and create a vortex of strong winds to redirect the flames in any direction but towards it. The fire ran back to Sypha, but moving her palms apart divided the wall of flame and extinguished it outright. Before the conflagration could even reach Trevor on her far right, she pulled the fire upwards with her magic and redirected it into the sky before a lick of it could touch his clothes.

He gave her a smirk. She smiled back.

Suddenly, a deafening sound shattered any confidence she might have had. With a roar, it began to charge at her at a terrifying speed, no matter how many fireballs she threw at it, or how terrified her expression became. It seemed to have fortified its own scales, because walls of fire and ice could not stop it from barrelling towards her with the madness like an avalanche.

A panic rose through his chest at the sight. He was not too far, but the monster would get to her before him even if he was to sprint as fast as he can. He drew his sword, and with his whip in one hand and his blade in the other, he began to run to her like the ground behind him was collapsing.

“Sypha!” he screamed. “Pull me to you!”

Her head turned at the sound of her name. One of her hands left its formation across her chest to keep shooting fireballs towards the raging creature, while with a grunt, she flourished a hand upwards to will a large spike of ice that was rooted to the ground before her.

His whip was long enough to reach and wind around the anchor she made, and with the pull of her arm, the spike swept him towards her and he flew through the air towards the monster’s head.

“Come on, you bastard,” he muttered, sword aimed to strike, then screamed. “ _Come on!”_

Just before the maw of the demon reached Sypha, it turned its head to meet him, and opened its mouth, baring fangs and the beginnings of a fireball at its throat. As if sensing a malevolent presence, his blade burned a bright blue flame.

In precious seconds, consecrated steel met unholy flesh.

* * *

She placed him down inside the caravan gently, lowering his body onto the makeshift cot that comprised of his fur-collared cloak and the spare mattresses and clothes they had been saving. Even the outer garments of her robe had to be bundled up to act a pillow for him to lie on. With a flick of her fingers, the lamp in the caravan brightens itself and casts the necessary light for her to rummage through the ointments she kept in a bag. Once she found what she was looking for, she knelt next to his form and examined its contents.

“Hang in there, Trevor,” she said, uncorking one of the green-tinted bottles with the flick of a thumb. With the other hand, she pushed aside a part of his vest to expose the burned collarbones and shoulder that had been narrowly scorched by the Firedrake’s breath against him. If he had not moved to the left in such a narrow time…

“Not that I’m complaining, Sypha,” he managed through gritted teeth and a pained scowl, “but this hurts like fucking hell.”

She bit back the quip to say that he definitely _was_ complaining and that doing so would not improve his situation, but instead she applied some of the salve onto her four fingers and pressed lightly onto the crease of his collarbone. “This might sting.”

“It can’t really be that b— _agh!”_

Agony coursed through his body quickly, and he suddenly sat up, hissing in pain as he clenched his fists so hard she was afraid he would draw blood. She fought back with as much force and pushed him back onto his makeshift cot, wiping the salve onto his burn.

“I know, I know,” she tried to placate him, applying more salve on her fingers. “Your skin will become accustomed to it. Let it set.”

Through strained fingers and a pain-wracked face, he tried to take deep breaths and let the burning sensation of the ointment seep into his skin. After a moment, he sighed back, relaxing his fingers and looking up at the ceiling of the caravan with a blank expression.

“What the fuck was that?” he said in the most deadpan expression.

“It’s something they call aloe extract,” she explained, rubbing it back onto the junction of his neck. “My grandfather used it to treat burn injuries. We’re only lucky I had some spare, or this would have been infected.”

“It feels…” he let a breath pass, sighing as she pressed her fingers onto the crevice of his collarbone, “soothing, now. It definitely hurt like shit earlier, though.”

She chuckled softly, applying more of the salve on her fingers and rubbing more of it onto the burn. Working in the silence helped clear her thoughts, let her mind rest after it had ran at the speed of lightning during their encounter with the Firedrake. But it did nothing to help her ignore the sensation of warm flesh underneath her fingers, the taut and sinewy muscles she was pressing and kneading the ointment into. His rested face did nothing to quell the flush that was growing on her skin, and she found herself averting her gaze more than usual. But the carving of the way his tendons shifted at the junction of his neck, the sculpture of his collarbones—

“Uh…Sypha?”

She turned back to his eyes after staring rather stupidly, her face growing even warmer at the sight of his expression. “Y-Yes?”

“You’ve used almost half of it.”

“I’ve…what?” She glanced back at the bottle in her hands, and it turns out she had been continuously applying onto the burn absentmindedly. Her own frustration snapped her back out of her reverie as she wiped her hand on her skirts and corked the bottle, stuffing it back into her bag. “Ugh, and this is hard to come by too.”

He tried to sit up, pushing himself on his elbows. “Well, who knows? We might come across a— _argh…”_

Her attention moves back to him again as he succumbs to his burn, and she helps him lie back down and fixes the headrest she made for him.

“Try not to exert a lot of effort,” she advised.

He did his best to nod his head, while his hand on the side not injured reached for the hem of his vest. “Maybe if I can…agh, _shit.”_

He hissed the word instead of groaning painfully, though some sounds of his anguish escaped him. She sighed and peeled his hands from the hem, forcing him to relax.

“Let me do it,” she mumbled rather exasperatedly. _“Just_ when I told you not to exert a lot of effort.”

“Fine,” he relented, rubbing his eyes.

She unfastened the straps holding the vest down with ease and with a dexterity like she knew what she was doing. Even as he sat up slowly to guide his arms out of the vest and free his burn or to lessen the constriction on his injury, a palpitation in her chest could not deny that she was, by all means, undressing him.

And how he felt under her touch was incredibly distracting. The strength of his body, the coarseness of his chest hair…shealmost wanted to scold herself, with how eager her hands seemed to be, undoing the latches of the fabric like she had done it a hundred times before. The sudden thought that, she _could_ be doing it a hundred times—

“Something wrong?” he asked, when he realised she had paused.

“Oh, no, sorry,” she retorted, shaking her head and continuing to open his high-collared undershirt, feeling his body shift underneath her touch. His skin was so warm, she feared she would not be able to breathe.

She adjusted herself to stay behind him, helping move his injured shoulder from his sleeve and let one side of his shirt hang lose while the other side continued to keep him warm from the winter on outside. Wiping her face and leaning against the wall of the caravan, she dimmed the lamp and pulled his own cape over her shoulders as the snow continued to fall outside. It was difficult to ignore him now, with only half of his shirt draped over his chest; even in the dim light, the hard cut of his biceps and shoulders was visible, and burned her face. What made this absolutely worse was that she did not know whether to be grateful that he was oblivious to how she squirmed under such conditions, or to be frustrated at him for not noticing how intimate that seemed to have been.

“Thank you,” he said, almost absentmindedly.

“You’re very welcome,” she replied.

Silence reigned, if only for a while.

“That was reckless, you know.”

She does not have to look at him to know he turned to her, by the way her tone implied.

“You just jumped in front of a creature like that, the way you did, and _without_ any plan,” she raised her voice, nearly heating up in anger (and whether at him or herself for behaving the way she did earlier, she did not know).

“There _was_ a plan.”

“And _what,_ brave Belmont, was the plan?”

“Easy,” he gestured with his fine arm, as if he was impaling an enemy in front of him. “Stab it with a consecrated sword, right through the spinal cord.”

She cast an exasperated look, and any warmth she had felt in her shame for touching him the way she did dissipated in the cold wind. “A move which nearly cost you your life.”

He leaned forward, as if to challenge her. “And, last time I recall, a move that saved yours.”

It hit her, then: how he had purposefully dove in front of the Firedrake’s path and nearly burned him alive simply because it was running towards her. She cast her eyes down at her knees, a flutter tickled her stomach and she wrapped her arms around herself, trying to ignore the sensation of heat blossoming in her chest at the mere fact that he was willing to sacrifice himself for her.

“I could have handled it,” she blurted out.

There was a moment of quiet, then a sigh. She feared turning to look at him because she was afraid of what expression he might give her.

“I know,” he said, voice quite sincere. “I should have trusted you to do it. Being worried was no excuse.”

He was worried for her, as she had been for him. It did not feel right. She shut her eyes and shifted a bit, moving forward so that she could place a hand on his wrist.

“No, don’t, I—” she started over and shook her head. “You saved my life… _again._ If anything, I should be thanking you.”

He let a breath go, and turned his palm upward so she could tangle her fingers in his. They both stared at their intertwined hands, and she tried to ignore the way her heart beat in her throat. It had never felt this strange before, so why now…?

“Should we start a tally, then?” he suggested, eyes alight with the mischief she both was amused by and found annoyance in. “Of who keeps saving who?”

She smiled, and the almost tense air that wafted over them disappeared. “That would be unfair, Trevor.”

Despite his condition, he raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yes; _you_ would have a great disadvantage against me. I can’t possibly put you in that predicament.”

He chuckled, she giggled, and the world felt right, if only for a mere moment, in the winter’s night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, come on. Honestly, anyone who thinks Trevor isn't handsome as shit needs to reevaluate. 
> 
> Anyway, no Alucard here yet; he'll appear more often in next chapters, with his own cool introspection stuff going on.


End file.
